


Tripwire

by TurtleNovas



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Before epilogue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle of Starcourt (Stranger Things)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleNovas/pseuds/TurtleNovas
Summary: After everything, there is still the small matter of Steve being very, very hurt.
Relationships: Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 54





	Tripwire

**Author's Note:**

> Another old WIP about post Battle of Starcourt stuff that I found and decided to finish. Cheeky lil repost from earlier today bc something got messed up lol.

After everything settles down, after the violence, and the fire, and the death. After the pain, and the drugs, and the smoke so thick it blocked out the lights of the parking lot. After military intervention, and government officials bearing down on the mall like vultures, there to insist that secrets were meant to stay secret, no matter how obvious and public the evidence. After they all pile into a military truck, stopping one by one at houses Steve doesn't recognize, leaving people behind at each place, various sets of parents lied to until finally it's Dustin's house, and Dustin's mother, and a boy too young to have been through any of this staring a soldier with a gun in the face and insisting that Steve is going to the same place he is. After Claudia's arms around him, her questions spilling out fast enough to clog the air as if they were a physical thing, her worry draped over both their shoulders and seeping in under their ribs to chase away the cold and the terror, replacing everything with care, and the sharp pang of secrecy. After all of it has wound down and quiet has permeated the Henderson household, the night sky dark, even as the heavy scent of smoke works its way through the air and into this house so far away from the fire, there's Dustin, voice quiet and hands gentle, and the spray of water on Steve's back.

The porcelain of the tub is cold against his skin, a vivid contrast against the heat of the water, and the burning, stinging pain of his skin. He's sitting down because he'd nearly fallen getting in, had only avoided earning himself a trip to the hospital because Dustin had been there, gaze studiously trained on the opposite corner, hands hovering carefully close enough to make sure Steve made it safely to his destination without touching unnecessarily. It would be humiliating, Steve thinks, to have his shower monitored by a teenager, if only he hadn't spent the better part of the last day being tortured, if only Dustin hadn't been the one to rescue him, if only Steve meant just from the Russians when he said Dustin rescued him. Instead, he's just tired, and in pain, and utterly willing to accept the close hovering protectiveness of his favorite person's hands as he lowers himself to sitting. Dustin pulls the curtain far enough closed that he can only see the curve of Steve's back from his spot sitting on the toilet lid and says quietly, "I'm just going to sit here in case you need anything."

Steve doesn't have the heart to protest, and he thinks, even if he did, he wouldn't want to. It's comforting having someone here for this, knowing that if he passes out under the spray, Dustin will be there to haul him out of the tub, or at least turn the water off before he drowns. He tries to say something, but his mouth is clumsy, his jaw clattering with the tremors of an adrenaline crash that he's been staving off for the better part of a day and night. His whole body is shaking with it, and he thinks it's a fucking miracle he manages to sit down without collapsing. He pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them and rests his cheek on one, gaze cast towards the outline of Dustin sitting on the other side of the curtain. If only he can just make it through this round of the shakes, he can reach for the soap and start washing away the ash and blood caked on his skin. He just has to make it through the next few minutes, until his body calms down. Just like last time.

Except last time he'd been alone, sprawled halfway out of the tub, trying not to puke all over himself. He'd been in the first throws of a full blown migraine, the likes of which he'd never experienced before, and there had been no one he could call out to for help, no one he would've felt comfortable asking even if they had been around. 

"Henderson," he says, and his teeth click and slip around it, his throat seizing up on the soreness in his jaw until the word is mangled into something totally unrecognizable. But Dustin won't leave him hanging. Dustin wouldn't have left him hanging last time, except that Steve hadn't known him well enough, had been too invested in protecting him, hadn't realized that Dustin was capable of and willing to go just far to protect Steve. This time, Steve knows better, knows it's okay for him to be here, for him to let himself ask for help from the one person who has always been there to offer it. He knows that, as much as he protects and cares for Dustin, it would be a greater slight for him to deny Dustin the opportunity to do the same for him. Even more so after the things they've been through tonight, the ways in which Dustin has proven himself over again.

Steve sees Dustin jerk forward as if to pull the curtain back and then come to a halt before his hand makes contact, holding himself still, halfway off the toilet as he replies, "Yeah?"

Steve smiles despite himself, winces at the pull of his split lip and broken face, and says, as clearly as he can, "I can't stop shaking enough to wash my hair."

He watches Dustin's shadow slide the rest of the way off the toilet and onto his knees, guesses he's settling on the bath mat before his fingers curl visibly around the edge of the curtain. "Okay," he says, and opens the curtain without any further discussion. "Just sit tight."

And so Steve does just that. He sits, curled in on himself enough that he can claim at least a modicum of modesty, and he lets himself simply breathe as Dustin's fingers work gently into his hair, scrubbing with barely there pressure, careful of all the ways in which Steve is in agony. And when he's done, and he's pressed and tilted and maneuvered Steve's head in gentle and thorough ways, so that all the shampoo is rinsed away, without any getting in his eyes, he puts the shampoo down and picks up the soap. Steve closes his eyes and lets himself rest as steam begins to fill the bathroom, making everything warm and wet, even inside his bruised up lungs.

Dustin's hands are gentle, ghosting over the myriad places that Steve is wounded, or sore, or broken, or simply sensitive. His soap smells of comfort, and Steve is vaguely aware that it's probably because the soap is what Dustin smells like most often, and it's the scent that Steve has grown most accustomed to experiencing when he's happy. It's something he'd missed while Dustin was away at camp, only he hadn't even realized it until this moment, where the smell of that soap, carried on a cloying cloud of steam, generated by the most delicate of touches, is only thing he has to focus on aside from the sensation of pain, and his body's determined insistence that he ought to start realizing now just how much danger they've just weathered. He smiles, and presses his mouth against his forearm so that Dustin won't see it and ask him why, when everything is so terrible, and Steve is too weak even to bathe himself, he feels just a little bit happy. 

It's not a very thorough bath. Dustin doesn't even bother trying to touch Steve's front, merely generates a lot of lather and sort of pushes it over the curve of Steve's shoulders, so the suds will roll down his chest and hopefully take some dirt with them. Still, Steve is grateful to be clean, to have the stench of the evening rinsing away and swirling down into the drain, brown and red and a little bit gritty. And then Dustin shuts the water off, and he pulls at Steve's arms so gently, it's barely even a touch, but still it feels like his fingertips are leaving bruises on Steve's biceps. He hisses with the pain of it as he uncurls and moves to stand, noticing Dustin's eyes very carefully trained on his face as those hands stay where they are, steady and strong. The towel is rough and kind of ratty, but Steve knows it's the best the Hendersons have right now, and he tries his best not to grimace and the drag of the fabric over his bruise tight skin. 

He leans on Dustin heavily as he steps out of the shower, and doesn't comment on the way Dustin's hand lingers at the small of his back as they make their way through the hall and into Dustin's room. Steve briefly wonders what he's going to wear, but before he can linger on the thought, he notices a small pile of clothes on Dustin's bed and remembers that he'd left an outfit here at some point, just in case. Kinda sucks that this is the eventuality that lead to their use, but he's glad for their foresight nevertheless. Before he can think on it much more than that, Dustin is pushing him down onto the mattress as gently as Steve has ever been pushed in his life. Still, the descent jars him, and he curls in on himself with a hiss, moving to clutch at his aching ribs before thinking better of it when it pulls at his wrenched shoulder and makes his neck begin to ache.

"Sorry," Dustin says, and there's enough pain in it that Steve looks up at him. For a moment, his breath stalls in his chest, and his heart drops low in his stomach, aching and sharp all at once. Dustin is always expressive, with his words, and his tone, his hands, and his face. Everything about him screams his feelings, even on the rare occasions that he's quiet, and yet, Steve has never seen him look so thoroughly upset or so singularly intense as he does at the moment. 

He's looking at Steve with a sort of focus that's incredibly jarring, coming from the kid who always has at least five different trains of thought going in his head at once, who is always thinking of so many things that sometimes the thoughts cross paths on the way to his mouth and the shit that comes out is hilarious and incomprehensible all at once. But now, he looks as if the world inside of his head has narrowed to a single point, and all of his focus, his wild, untamable thoughts are bearing down on Steve with a level of concern that's so alien and uncomfortable, Steve begins to squirm where he sits, unable to look away for fear that he might miss even a second of the care being directed at him. 

Dustin's mouth twitches, the corners pulling down out of the hard line it had formed. His brows follow suit, and for a moment Steve feels terror roaring up inside of him, bunching his muscles as he prepares to flinch and run if Dustin is actually disappointed in him right now. 

Dustin makes a sound, confusion aborted quickly into a sort of panic of his own. "No," he says, firm and gentle. His hands alight on either side of Steve's face, palms cupping his jaw with pressure gentle like the stretch and splay of a bird's broken wings. "I'm mad at what happened," he says, focus still so singular it makes a hysterical flash of paranoia run through Steve, wondering if maybe he'd been replaced and this is a different boy, put here to hurt Steve while he was vulnerable. 

But then he says, "I'm not mad at you." And his hands press a little more firmly, enough that it makes an ache lance through his entire face. Steve winces, but doesn't look away, and Dustin doesn't let up, and somehow it's okay that it hurts, because Steve thinks no one has ever looked so upset on his behalf before. It feels kind of nice. It hurts, but he thinks he might want to lean into the feeling, if it meant Dustin would just stay here and look at him like he matters for a little longer.

He feels kind of powerful, knowing that his wounds are the only thing he's seen that could bring Dustin and his cacophonous circus of a mind to such an all consuming halt.

Dustin sighs, and Steve wonders if that thought was broadcast on his face, wonders if Dustin saw it and will realize now that he's not worth the full power of all that energy, honed into a single point of care. Only, that's not it, because Dustin's hands are tilting Steve's face down, and he's leaning over just enough to press his mouth to Steve's forehead, whisper soft and cool against his warm and swollen skin. Steve only has time to close his eyes and wonder at the tension dropping out of him like his strings have been cut before Dustin isn't touching him at all anymore. He feels his blood, rushing through his skin, pressing around his skull like a torrent, and it's hard to even open his eyes and look, but he does anyways, just to see if _why_ is written in Dustin's posture.

Dustin is looking down, face obscured in the shadows of the dark room and behind his hair, falling over the places that might have been open to him otherwise. His hands are loose at his side, totally still. The placidity of his fingers alone is enough for Steve to know the sudden shyness isn't regret. 

"My mom," Dustin says, voice cracking an octave higher on it. Steve can’t control the smile that breaks over his face, just big enough to hurt, too fond to stop himself. "Not much anymore, but when I was little." His hand flutters, a diminutive version of his normal, _you know_ , flourish, fingers tracing a small, feather arc through the shaft of moonlight at his hip. "Mostly it's when I have surgery now. But." He looks up then, and Steve thinks his cheeks are probably a bit pink, just from the tone, and the soft downward tilt of his mouth. "When it really hurts," he says, and his voice cracks again, only this time it sounds like he's about to cry. "Sometimes," he soldiers on, and his fingers flutter again, so Steve reaches out and grabs them, squeezing just enough to draw Dustin's gaze to them, a split second before he looks back up at Steve and is smiling now. "Sometimes you just have to kiss it better, you know? I don't care what anyone says, it can help." 

Steve hugs him: Drops his fingers and puts both of his arms around Dustin's middle and squeezes, ignoring the lightning crash agony in his shoulder, and the broken glass sandpaper on an open wound feeling of his shirt against Steve's swollen eye and cut up face. He feels his breath coming fast, makes note of the dagger sharp stab of it in his lungs, under then oppressive brass knuckle punch feeling of his heart roaring against his sternum. His head feels like it's going to explode, like his eyes are being pushed out of his skull by the pressure of it all, but he only squeezes tighter, until he feels Dustin's hands on his back, fingers trailing his spine and scapulae like he's trying to play a secret song to unlock Steve’s calm. And Steve thinks there are probably words, too, rushing to ask what's wrong, or write it off as not that big of a deal. But Steve can't hear it over the roar of blood in his ears, so he just hangs on, hoping Dustin will know what it means. Hoping that he'll understand that no one has ever bothered for Steve before, and that it's a feeling he doesn't know how to process except to hold on and pray to every god that will listen that it doesn't slip through his fingers the way he thinks it should.

Mostly, he just kind of hopes Dustin will do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Take care of Steve 2k∞ amirite?


End file.
